


Profaning the Angel

by jdmara



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Come Swallowing, Dirty Talk, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mild Voyeurism, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Crying, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:27:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29361729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdmara/pseuds/jdmara
Summary: For the Terror Rarepair Week 2021 prompt "Carnivale" and the Irvday2021 prompt "bandage".Solomon, one hand against the side of Tommy’s head, looks at Irving. Irving, his fingers curled in fidgeting fists, looks at Solomon. Tommy, blissfully unaware, fumbles with the buttons on Solomon’s trousers until he gets Solomon’s prick in one soft palm.
Relationships: John Irving/Solomon Tozer, John Irving/Solomon Tozer/Thomas Armitage, Thomas Armitage/Solomon Tozer
Comments: 15
Kudos: 29
Collections: John Irving Birthday Week 2021, The Terror Rarepair Week 2021





	Profaning the Angel

**Author's Note:**

> based on a title and irving at carnivale concept that i came up with months ago and an armitozer vision that came to me in a dreamy haze a couple nights ago at 2am

Tucked away in a dark corner within the curling depths of the Carnivale tent structure, Solomon Tozer leans against a crate, cups one broad hand to the smooth cheek of Tommy Armitage and presses his mouth against Tommy’s small hot one. This won’t be the first time they’ve done this, nor the last, but it’s certainly the most public. There’s no privacy on a ship, Solomon has learned over his many years aboard one ship or another, and somehow the revelry of Carnivale renders this little corner intimate and secret. 

Tommy’s mouth is wet and searching and overeager. He’s not exactly skilled, Solomon has known that since their first messy fumble in his berth, when Solomon had had to cup a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet, but he more than makes up for it with quick, nimble hands, and a surplus of enthusiasm. Tommy mouths his way down Solomon’s throat, leaving a wet, tingling trail behind before he drops to his knees, pulling Solomon’s burlap costume aside to get at his trousers. Solomon opens his eyes, intending to look down at his Tommy, perhaps pull his Welsh wig off and get a fistful of those dark curls — but instead gets an eyeful of someone else entirely.

Standing there, slightly swaying, looking at the two of them, is Lieutenant John Irving. Perhaps, Solomon considers, he’s been standing there for a while, rooted to the ground, watching, as Solomon cupped Tommy’s arse and ground his hips against him, drawing out little noises. Irving’s mouth hangs open a little bit, fishlike, as if some word made its way halfway up his throat and then got stuck, choking him.

Solomon, one hand against the side of Tommy’s head, looks at Irving. Irving, his fingers curled in fidgeting fists, looks at Solomon. Tommy, blissfully unaware, fumbles with the buttons on Solomon’s trousers until he gets Solomon’s prick in one soft palm. 

The lieutenant’s got a halo perched on his flushed head and shiny golden wings knotted around his chest, Solomon observes, before sharply inhaling as Tommy takes his prick in his hot, wet mouth. His hips desperately seek the heat, and his hand curls round the back of Tommy’s neck, tugging him in closer. Tommy goes, eagerly, as he always does. Solomon tracks with his eyes the twitching movement of Irving’s right fist, bandaged and cracking, toward his groin. That burlap skirt he’s wearing doesn’t hide much at all. Solomon looks up, meets Irving’s eyes, and smiles, broad as can be. 

“Why don’t you join us, lieutenant?” he says, loud as he dares. Certainly loud enough that Tommy pulls back off his prick, lips spit-slick and a little thread of spittle stretching thin and gossamer in the crisp air. The sensation is enough to make Solomon moan. Tommy moves, blown-dark eyes wide, turning his head, presumably to see which lieutenant, precisely, Solomon has invited to their little rendezvous. Irving’s eyes nervously travel southward, and Solomon feels his grin turn a touch nasty. He raises his right hand, still delicately bandaged but healed enough for use, and beckons to Irving.

Trancelike, Irving stumbles forward, face ruddy from either the cold or drink, Solomon knows not which. Perhaps it’s both. Irving seems the type to be indulgent with drink. No shame in it, not in Solomon’s book. He and Tommy have both indulged, themselves, tonight, though not enough to be sloppy with it. As soon as Irving is within reach from where Solomon is leaning, he grabs Irving by the arm and pulls him in close, past Tommy’s still kneeling form, and plants a wet kiss on him. 

“Alright with you, Tommy?” he asks cheerfully, grip firm on Irving’s arm through his coat. He’s a skinny bit of a thing under his coat, Solomon can feel it. Tug him around too hard and he might snap in half. 

“S’alright, Sol,” Tommy replies, and Solomon can feel his hot breath on his half-hard cock as he speaks. He thrusts his hips forward and Tommy gets the message, cupping a thin hand around the base and putting his mouth back to work. Solomon can hear the quick, rabbity breaths of Irving catch and stutter in his throat as Tommy begins to suck and move his hand in tandem. Solomon looks over at Irving. 

“Like what you see, lieutenant?” he inquires, as casually as he can with his prick leaking down his Tommy’s throat. He looks a trembling Irving up and down, and can see through his layers, remarkably, that he’s hard. Irving looks as though he’s working his plump mouth and slender throat to say something, anything, before Solomon crashes their mouths together once more. 

“John,” Irving finally spits out, voice tight, even as he sways with Solomon’s grip. “If we’re… if this is…” He looks as if he’s eaten something particularly foul, and Solomon would think he was disgusted, except his skin is flushed from his cheeks all the way down his pretty neck. “I’m John,” he settles on. His gray-green eyes flicker over Solomon, up his arm, down his body, to where Tommy kneels, half-under Solomon’s costume, using his tongue in a way that makes Solomon gasp.

“Whatever you say, lieutenant,” Solomon says easily, moves his hand from the man’s arm, and plunges it under the rough material of his skirt. “John,” he corrects, as if he hadn’t meant to savor the way the word ‘lieutenant’ rolled off his tongue one last time. He moves his hand purposefully under Irving’s — John’s skirts, pleased to find he’s wearing only his smallclothes underneath, and brings the heel of his palm to John’s groin. His smile curls as John snaps an arm up to clutch at Solomon’s forearm, jerking him in such that his whole palm is flush with what he’s found under John’s smalls.

“My, John,” he drawls, stretching the name out so John shivers. “What an instrument you’ve been hiding.” He jerks his hips as Tommy twists his hand particularly deftly at the base, and presses his hand inside John’s smalls. Just by touch Solomon can tell that John’s yard is thick and flushed with heat. 

“What do you want, John?” he murmurs under the roar of Carnivale, leaning close to John’s ear. “Do you want my hand? Want me to frig you while Tommy sucks me?” He runs his thumb over the spongy head of John’s prick. “You want Tommy’s mouth on you?” He strokes John’s fat length. Christ, he’s so hard already, and he’s making little mewling noises as if nobody’s ever touched him like this before. It may be that no one ever has. A pleasing thought. It’s as if the heat from John’s prick is flowing up through his palm, up his arm, through his heart, and down his torso to where Tommy messily laps at his own prick, one warm line of pleasure carved through his whole body. “You...you want my mouth?” he gasps into John’s ear, and mouths at his cheek. A noise tears out of John’s throat, and Solomon, somehow, knows he’s about to spill. He clamps his hand at John’s root, in the way he knows will hold John off. “Not yet. You wait.” And he pulls his hand away from John’s groin entirely, putting both hands on Tommy’s head as he nears his own crisis. 

Solomon slips his fingers below Tommy’s Welsh wig, tugging gently at the curls beneath, as Tommy, with great effort, takes Solomon to the root. Solomon wants to watch, knows Tommy’s lips are shiny and swollen, can feel that he’s made a right mess of Solomon’s cock — but he can’t look away from John, obediently waiting. What a thing. To be obeyed by such a superior officer so completely. John isn’t even touching himself, studiously keeping his hands at his sides, though his knuckles are white and his nails are buried in his palms. Solomon bares his teeth.

“Tommy,” he grunts, loudly, so’s Tommy stutters in his movement, just as Solomon’s hips judder forward and he spills great spurts down Tommy’s throat. He can feel Tommy’s throat convulse as he swallows around Solomon’s spent prick. Then Tommy’s pulling his mouth away, using those nimble fingers to tuck Solomon’s softening prick away and button his trousers back up over the sensitive flesh. 

“Good work, Tommy,” he manages, running his hands through those pretty dark curls before pulling them away. Tommy makes a pleased noise and sits back on his heels, and Solomon can see him slipping his hand inside his own trousers before Solomon turns to John. “Your turn,” he declares, hooking his hands around John’s waist and pulling him in flush with Solomon’s waist. He’s a pretty, skinny little thing, but he’s of a height with Solomon, perhaps even a couple inches taller when he isn’t shrinking inside his own skin, so Solomon can feel his hard cock against his own soft one, can almost see it leaking through the layers of fabric, and it tempts him, for a moment. He has a vision of rutting against John until his own cock hardens again, making John cry out blasphemous things, but — no. He promised John his mouth.

Using both his hands on John’s slender waist, he hauls him up to sit atop the crate Solomon had been leaning against previously. He goes surprisingly easily, even for a skinny lad. His wings, so golden in the light of Carnivale, seem near gray in their dark corner. Solomon tugs down the skirt and smalls in one motion, and John’s prick springs free, and Solomon gets his first good look at the beast. It stands red and proud against John’s navy blue coat, and, Christ, it must go halfway down his thigh when soft. Solomon’s mouth goes wet, and he can hear Tommy gasp behind him as he frigs himself, watching. John’s cockstand is dripping, as if he can barely contain the force of his own semen, and Solomon ducks his head forward, leans down, and tastes. 

Just the pressure of Solomon’s tongue rips a sudden, almost painful noise from John, and Solomon knows it won’t be long. He pushes his left hand up John’s inner thigh and simultaneously takes as much of John’s prick into his mouth as he can. It hits the back of his throat, stretching his jaw gloriously wide, and he’s still nowhere near the base. He flicks his eyes up and can see tears streaking down John’s ruddy cheeks, his pretty mouth hanging open. Solomon pulls up, nearly off John’s pulsing prick, hearing him gasp as he laves his tongue up the underside of it, and then presses back down again. He can feel John’s hips trembling as he works John’s cock further inside his mouth, trying desperately not to choke as he takes it a little farther than the last time. He hasn’t had a cock this big for a long while. He can see John’s eyes flicking back and forth between him and whatever obscene display Tommy is putting on behind him. The wild noises John’s making and Tommy’s little gasps in the background are almost enough to interest his cock in standing again. Considering it, the salty taste of John’s leaking prick on his tongue, he presses his wide thumb to John’s fundament. 

At that slight amount of pressure, John reaches his crisis, hips pressing ever forward as he spills down Solomon’s throat with a howl. Solomon pulls off as John finishes and stands, mouth full of John’s seed, and looks him in his pretty face. John’s eyes are red, his cheeks wet, and Solomon runs a thumb over one cheek, brushing away some of the moisture in those pretty lashes, before he presses his mouth to John’s open mouth, kissing his own spend into him. John obediently swallows, and Solomon kisses him again, wet and hard, before pulling away. John sits there on the crate stupidly, mouth shining, eyes glistening, prick soft and spent. Behind him, Solomon hears his Tommy cry out, clear as a bell, and knows he, too, is spent. 

A stormy look overtakes John’s blissful face, and he pushes himself off the crate, pulling his clothes back into order, his golden wings shimmering in the glow of Carnivale. He straightens his halo, which had fallen crooked during one of his rapturous spasms, and readjusts himself inside his smalls. His face red and hot with what must be shame, he looks at first Tommy, then Solomon, with flames burning in his eyes.

  
“You will tell no one of this,” he orders, voice taut and quivering. “No one!” He spits the words out, tears still brimming at the corners of his eyes, gesticulating tightly with his bandaged hand. An implied threat of lashing or worse hangs in the air, but it isn’t very convincing when John has a bit of his own spend glistening on his chin.

“Whatever you say, lieutenant,” Solomon says easily, his voice rough from taking John down his throat. John Irving really is a pretty picture even when he’s trembling and crying with rage, he thinks. Maybe even prettier because of it. John stands there, hand in the air, before he turns on his heel and starts to leave.

“Be seeing you, John,” Solomon calls after him, tacking the name on like a blade to John’s back. He sees John’s shoulders hunch under his golden wings as he marches away out of Solomon and Tommy’s dark corner, out of the winding depths of Carnivale, to no doubt bury himself in drink until he can convince himself that this either never happened, or that it had been an impulse brought on by the alcohol, and not before. 

“Y’never know with officer types,” Tommy declares, standing and brushing off his knees, straightening his costume. His Welsh wig is slightly askew, but Solomon won’t tell him for another hour. It’s sweet. Instead he laughs and claps a hand on Tommy’s shoulder, pulling him in close to his left and pressing a kiss to the right side of his head. 

“Never a truer word, Tommy,” he replies, and picks his crown off the ground and puts it back on. “But he seems like the type to come crawling back under cover of night.” He gives Tommy another kiss, a proper one, on his soft mouth, a salty taste on his tongue. 

“Now,” Solomon says, “let’s go check on Bill. Let’s hope Pilkington hasn’t gotten too soused and done anything funny to him, eh?” His smile comes easy, as it always does, and Tommy’s mouth quirks up at the edge in return. Solomon ducks out of their dark little corner, into the light and festivities of Carnivale, and Tommy follows behind and to his left, back into the revelry.

**Author's Note:**

> and then everything was fine and nobody set anything on fire thanks very much
> 
> find me on [tumblr](https://jdmara.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/TheJDMara)


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